


I’m Not Your Hero (It Doesn’t Mean I Wasn’t Brave)

by ImNeitherNor



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: A lot of introspection on Steve's part, Billy is possessed, But he is a fighter, Fighting, Happy Ending, Knives, M/M, Steve Character Analysis, Steve is v lonely, and he will protecc, and post S3, as is my usual, pre S3, some blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 12:38:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22780600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImNeitherNor/pseuds/ImNeitherNor
Summary: In the heat and stickiness of summer, after a graduation that his parents only attended because they’re Harringtons and it would look bad if they didn’t, Max starts dropping hints without realizing it. Small, seemingly innocent things. Things that set Steve’s teeth on edge. His skin crawls with the chill of it even in Hawkins’ humidity, puts him on high alert and rips him awake at odd hours of the night, gasping and desperate to survive monsters that creep around inside of his skull.--For Ihni, who requested Flayed!Billy be held at knife point by Steve. I definitely indulged here.There's a happy ending after all of the scuffling and back and forth,promise.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington/Billy Hargrove
Comments: 21
Kudos: 417
Collections: harringrove for Australia





	I’m Not Your Hero (It Doesn’t Mean I Wasn’t Brave)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ihni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ihni/gifts).

> I love you and hope you love this, Ihni! Your art brings such joy and laughter to the fandom. I'm just hoping this hits all of your wants. :)
> 
> Special thanks to Janna for beta'ing. LOVE U BB.

In the heat and stickiness of summer, after a graduation that his parents only attended because they’re Harringtons and it would look _ bad _ if they didn’t, Max starts dropping hints without realizing it. Small, seemingly innocent things. Things that set Steve’s teeth on edge. His skin crawls with the chill of it even in Hawkins’ humidity, puts him on high alert and rips him awake at odd hours of the night, gasping and desperate to survive monsters that creep around inside of his skull.

_ He’s been such an asshole. More than usual. _

_ He bought his own AC unit for his room and I’m surprised he hasn’t gotten hypothermia in there. _

_ He’s wearing clothes. I mean, he should, but he isn’t showing off anymore. Have you seen him at the pool? _

_ He barely eats and he isn’t getting into fights with his dad as much. _

_ He’s not really around anymore. _

It’s two or three days of comments before Steve is dropping by the Hawkins’ Public Pool, late in the afternoon after a miserable shift at Scoops. Sure, he has his own private pool, but if what he suspects is happening is _ actually _ happening, then he needs proof. And if he needs proof, he needs to stalk Hargrove. What Steve knows for sure, though? He’s not getting the kids involved. They’ve gone through enough. Hell, he’s pretty sure _ he _ should be included in the _ kids _ category, but who else is going to put themselves in Billy Hargrove’s path?

Steve has felt pretty useless for long enough. He figures that maybe, _ just maybe_, if he can do this without fucking up, he’ll feel less like a waste of space. If he can save someone, prevent a death like Barb’s or Bob’s or--

Even _ Hargrove’s _ life. Sure, the guy is the definition of an asshole, but he doesn’t deserve to go through what Steve is suspecting he’s going through. Especially, Steve figures as he plops down onto one of the loungers underneath the afternoon sun, if the rumors about Hargrove’s old man are true. Steve knows to take rumors with a grain of salt, but the whispers in this small town would certainly explain the random bruises and split lips and eyebrows and the lack of cuts on Hargrove’s knuckles.

Okay, so maybe Steve looks more than he thinks he does. Who doesn’t, though? Hargrove is the definition of what girls want. He has the body, the hair, the blue eyes, the grin of a shark when he wants to be vicious, and a gentleman when he needs something. Steve adjusts his Ray-Bans and takes in the resident lifeguard. Hargrove is decked out in a hat covering his curls, aviators, a white long-sleeved shirt, and pants that look like windbreakers. He has one of those huge, plastic Slurpee cups in one hand and his lighter in the other. Steve is sure that if he got closer, he could hear the _ shhtick _ of the wick and butane whenever Hargrove flicks it enough to light it.

From Steve’s sprawled position on the lounger, he can see the drops of sweat on Hargrove’s forehead, down the sides of his face. In the short time that Steve has known Hargrove, he would never say that he looked uncomfortable. He does now, sitting under the red umbrella and hiding from the sun. He looks uncomfortable and irritable and maybe on this side of nauseous. His eyebrows are pinched together, a sign of his discomfort. Usually, he’s snarking at kids or gaining the attention of the resident moms.

At this moment? Hargrove looks like he wants to be anywhere but in the lifeguard’s chair.

And while Steve doesn’t feel like he’s all that great at school, where letters dance over the pages of his textbooks like they’re more interested in the tango instead of being read, he’s pretty goddamn confident in his observations of people. He’s sure that’s why he’s so good at babysitting. He just wishes he had been good at it when Nance was sleeping around with Johnathan. Maybe he would have seen it sooner. Maybe he could have prevented his heartbreak or the way Nance had spitten _ bullshit _ at him or stared at him with her wide eyes as he asked her about loving him.

Maybe he’d be more than _ just _ a babysitter.

Still, none of his bullshit mattered when the world was falling apart and monsters were having people as snacks. It had felt like it was over, though, and Steve wishes, _ hopes_, that what he thinks is happening isn’t, that Hargrove isn’t shifting in his chair because of something in his head, that he isn’t hiding from the sun because it prefers the cold. Steve can’t help the horrifying metaphor of the sun baking people into better, crispier treats for the demogorgons and the demodogs while it watches from Billy’s eyes.

He knows what a goddamn metaphor is, thank you _ very _ fucking much.

Time ticks by and Steve, completely aware of his habit of burning and then freckling, makes sure to put on sunscreen. He doesn’t touch the pool and he keeps himself relaxed against the lounger, eyes hidden by his sunglasses while he observes Hargrove from the opposite side of the pool. This goes on for what could be considered an awkward amount of time--sunscreen, lie back, shift, watch, repeat. As the sun sets and the pool starts to empty out, Steve gets up, too.

He waits until the locker room is empty to look around. Nothing looks out of place. There are random towels, but that’s normal. He starts to check lockers, just to see if they’ll open. Some don’t, some do, but it’s surprising to find that Hargrove’s locker isn’t locked. The jean jacket hanging next to a pair of folded jeans gives it away. There’s also the intense smell of cologne. Steve wrinkles his nose, glances toward the front of the locker room, and then starts to rummage.

Nothing is different. Nothing is out of the ordinary. Maybe Steve is just on a wild goose chase and he’s so paranoid that this innocent little thing is setting off false alarms. He licks his lips as frustration burns just below his skin. It _ has _ to be something. Hargrove doesn’t walk around in long-sleeved shirts. He doesn’t cover himself up. He doesn’t wear hats on curls he probably spent too much time on, just like Steve spends on his own hair. He knows Hargrove that well, at least.

When Steve finds a basic pocket knife in one of Hargrove’s pockets, he tugs it out and shuts the locker. 

“Looking for something, pretty boy?” The question startles Steve enough that he jumps. It’s embarrassing, borderline humiliating, but he turns around and grips the pocket knife in his fist. Hargrove’s eyes are on him, narrowed, suspicion riding something else in the background that Steve can’t quite place. Maybe it’s Hargrove’s tone, like he _ wants _ Steve to find something, like he wants to be _ seen _.

It isn’t the look that Steve is getting that throws him off. It isn’t the tone, either. It’s what’s _ missing_. There’s no scowl. There’s no drawl. There’s no smarmy attitude to match the grin on Hargrove’s face. He isn’t getting into Steve’s space or shoulder checking him or pushing him into the lockers. The words are right, sure, but the execution is wrong. It’s like an act.

_ It’s _ acting.

Steve thinks of Barb and Bob. He thinks of the kids and the heaviness of the tunnels. He thinks of the stench of gasoline and the burn of the fire and smoke under his bandana and goggles, of the fear that tasted like salt in his throat when he and the kids barely scrambled out alive. 

“I asked you a _ question_,” there's a bite in his voice now, impatience as Steve watches him. Hargrove moves forward and slams his palm into the lockers next to Steve’s head. He doesn’t jump this time. Instead, Steve looks down at Hargrove. The mere inch difference is pronounced without Hargrove’s boots to make up the difference.

“I heard you,” Steve tries his best to keep his voice from wavering. The edges of the pocket knife are pronounced against his palm, a reminder that he has a weapon if he needs it. 

“Then answer me,” Hargrove leans in and there’s a strange but distinct smell of bleach and chlorine. He should smell like pool, but it smells like--

“Have you been drinking _ bleach_?” Steve drags his thumbnail over the ridge in the knife and keeps it there. If he needs to, he can flick it open. “You _ could_,” Steve starts, pressing, “be drinking gasoline and get lit on fire again. You remember that, right? It wasn’t that long ago.”

The inhuman flash in Hargrove’s eyes and the snarl that curls on his lips is the only answer Steve needs. Well, that and the way a hand circles around his throat and shoves him back into the lockers. The grip is tight, _ mean_, but Steve keeps Bob and Barb at the front of his mind. The kids, too. They shouldn’t have to go through this again, to risk what little time they’ve had to just be _ kids_. If anyone in the group is expendable in the being-used-as-bait way, it’d be Steve. Sure, he probably won’t win against a possessed Hargrove (he couldn’t win against a normal one), but the fight and the talk that spreads will give the gang the heads up that they need to prepare.

He’s bullshit, after all, but maybe he’ll count for _ something _ when this ends.

Steve shoves his knee into Hargrove’s stomach and decks him across the face with the fist not clutching the knife. As soon as Hargrove stumbles back, Steve darts forward and shoves him into the opposite locker. He locks an arm across Hargrove’s chest and flips the knife out. Steve doesn’t have any actual intention of hurting him, but he pushes the sharp edge of the blade against Hargrove’s throat anyway.

“This isn’t a fucking joke,” Steve warns, his anger and frustration of being useless bubbling into his voice, a chasm wrenched open between his ribs, “people _ died_, Hargrove. People fucking died and I’m not letting anyone else die again.”

Hargrove laughs--a burst of sound that’s bitter and breathless--but he doesn’t try to get away. He leans forward, into the blade. Steve’s eyes flicker down to the knife, where the skin begins to stress white. “People die, huh?” Hargrove asks, and his tone varies between normal and warped, a deepness that Steve didn’t know he could reach, “news to me, Harrington.”

Steve watches Hargrove’s tongue drag over his lower lip. It leaves the skin wet and too pink. It’s a distraction Steve can’t afford, no matter how close they are.

“I think you _ know_,” Steve puts more pressure across Hargrove’s chest, even if he isn’t budging, “I think you know about Barb and Bob and I think it’s in your head and you’re _ scared_, right? You have no idea what’s going on? You just know it isn’t right? _ Hargrove_!” He yanks Billy forward by the shirt and slams him back into the lockers, the knife still held tight enough to his throat that it’s dangerous. It’s so close that Steve can feel when Hargrove swallows, when his Adam’s apple bobs under the pressure of his hand.

“And you,” Hargrove sneers, once again leaning forward enough that the blade begins to irritate the skin, “_you _ think you can help me? You can’t even protect a bunch of _ kids_\--”

Steve thinks about the junkyard, his bat, about the effort he put into each swing that kept the kids alive in the bus.

“--and you think you’re gonna, what?” Hargrove’s voice cracks, just for a second, but he laughs again. It’s an easy cover up, Steve thinks. “Save me? You don’t know what I’ve _ done_. You don’t know what he’s made me--”

“It’s not your fault!” Steve snaps as he looks between Hargrove’s eyes. Steve finally figures out what’s swirling behind the constant anger and challenge in all of that blue. Fear. Hargrove is scared. _ Billy _ is scared. At that moment, Steve remembers that Billy is younger than him, that for all of his posturing and snarling and shoving, he’s still a kid and this is probably just as frightening as it had been when Steve had first run into one of those things. Except, Steve knows, he had Nance and Johnathan. The hurt was fresh, sure, but he _ had _ someone.

Billy pushes into the knife like it belongs there.

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” Billy breathes it out and it’s quiet, almost private, just between the two of them. “You don’t _ know_.”

The rawness startles Steve so much that he lessens the grip across Billy’s chest. It’s a mistake. Billy shoves forward, knocking the knife onto the floor with a clatter that Steve feels in his bones. He stumbles back and hears _ plant your feet _ in the back of his head before they both hit the ground. Billy’s hand circles around Steve’s throat again while he reaches for the knife, twisting himself so he can’t be successfully pinned down. It’s a grapple between the two of them, and Steve isn’t sure if he’s wrestling with Billy or with that _ thing_.

Steve finally curls his fingers around the knife by the wrong end, cutting himself in the process, but he gets it. As soon as he has a good hold on the handle, Steve relaxes just long enough to throw Billy off. When he twists to the right without warning, Billy tumbles to his side with a grunt. The pressure is gone from his throat and his hips, so Steve rolls over and plants one hand on Billy’s chest, shoving him down onto the floor while he straddles his slim waist.

“You’re not taking anyone else from us,” Steve says viciously, “you’re _ not_. I don’t even care if it’s _ Billy_. You’re _ not _ taking anyone else!” He shuffles forward until he can press his knees to Billy’s underarms, pinning them down with his weight while shoving the knife against Billy’s throat again. “You’re not taking him,” Steve repeats firmly.

Billy tries to grab Steve’s wrist, but he knocks Billy’s hand away, grabs it, and shoves it down above his head. He keeps his hand there, the other at Billy’s throat.

“I don’t care what I have to do,” Steve adds, adrenaline fueling his strength. He knows he’s bruising Billy’s wrist and his arms. He’s now cutting into his throat, beads of red slipping down the slope of Billy’s neck. “I’ll light the tunnels on fire again. I’ll take out however many of those things that I gotta. You’re going to _ fuck. Off_.”

There’s doubt mixed with anger crossing Billy’s face. His brows pinch together as he snarls and squirms. Steve is one hundred percent sure that if Billy truly wanted him off, he could push him off. Maybe Billy is exhausted from that thing being in his head. Maybe he hasn’t been sleeping. Maybe he has been drinking bleach. 

Maybe Billy just wants help.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Billy finally snaps at him, “you _ idiot _ . Do you have _ any _ functioning brain cells? Do you know what you’re _ dealing _ with?!” He sounds desperate and furious, which is admittedly an odd mix for Billy, but the strangest part is the way his eyes become glassy.

Steve tries to fight the sting of the question off by concentrating on what's going on underneath him. Billy is panicking. He can see it in the flush of his cheeks and the way his breathing has become shallow and quick. 

“I know exactly what I’m dealing with,” Steve doesn’t feel sure of a lot of things, but he knows this. He knows he can help Billy. He knows he can find a way to get that thing out. “It’s why you’re not half as scary as you think you are, Billy.”

It makes Billy laugh, and maybe it shouldn’t, but Billy laughs and a couple of tears trace down his temples, into his curls. His hand is still pinned above his head, the other useless with Steve’s knee digging into his arm. “If you knew about me,” Billy says, sounding resigned but sure of himself, “you’d let it take me.”

“No one deserves to die like that,” Steve says vehemently, nearly pulling the knife away when Billy strains up, when more blood spills. It’s not enough to truly harm Billy, but the red still freaks Steve out. He knows it attracts those things, and he can’t take on Billy _ and _ demodogs in one go. “It doesn’t matter _ what _ you are.”

“You're full of _ shit_,” Billy spits as he bucks his hips, a fruitless attempt of throwing Steve off, “you and this conservative town would skin me alive and laugh doing it if you knew.”

Steve isn’t sure he wants to know because being full of shit is irritatingly, and more frighteningly, close to _ bullshit _ than he'd like to admit. But whatever is on Billy’s mind is keeping him in control, so Steve knows he’ll have to pry. He’ll have to dig at whatever bothers Billy so much that it keeps that thing at bay. 

“I think a monster from a different dimension wins out against whatever you’ve got,” Steve settles on. He refuses to let Billy catch him off guard like he had earlier. He keeps the knife, bloody now, firmly on Billy’s throat while pushing all of his weight into Billy’s chest and wrist.

“I don’t know about that,” Billy leans up further and it takes everything in Steve not to move the knife, especially as more blood drips down Billy’s skin. “When I said there were plenty of bitches in the sea, Steve, I didn’t just mean _ girls_.”

The shock is about as startling as the way Billy says his name. Steve feels his eyes go wide and his cheeks warm. He catches a flash of bright red out of the corner of his eye and looks over just long enough to see Max. He knows he needs to distract Billy enough that he doesn’t notice what Max has in her hand--an old friend of his. Steve puts his full attention on Billy and twists his hand that originally pinned Billy's wrist to lace their fingers together.

“You telling me you’re a bitch, Billy?” Steve asks quietly. Billy’s expression mirrors Steve’s from earlier, and it gives him that second of leeway to drop down and press their mouths together. Billy’s lips are surprisingly smooth, soft, with a faint taste of strawberry that once again shocks Steve. There’s a clatter, a skid, and Steve tightens his grip in Billy’s hand, over his fingers. 

“Sorry,” Steve says as soon as Max gets close enough to Billy's hip and pulls the cap off with her teeth.

“What?” Billy sounds breathless, dumbfounded, like he can’t pull his head away from the fact that he and Steve are kissing. Steve is sort of in the same boat, but.

Max shoves the needle into Billy’s thigh and pushes the plunger down at the same time Steve catches Billy in another kiss.

“You _ son of a bitch_\--” Billy hisses against his mouth, but Steve can see the understanding in Billy's face as his muscles start to go easy. It only takes a couple of seconds for Billy to be completely limp on the floor.

“How did you know?” Steve asks, voice tight, challenging, like _ say something, I dare you_. He knows she saw Steve kissing Billy. He knows she's a kid and kids usually can't keep their mouths shut. 

“I’m not stupid,” Max shoots Steve a look that he's positive she’s learned from Billy, “about that shit _ or _ about why Billy hates himself so much. Come on. We gotta get it out of him.” She pushes herself up and nods. “He’s heavy, so move your ass.”

“You’re a _ menace_,” Steve grumbles as he glances down at Billy. He gets up carefully after pulling the knife away from Billy's neck. It hadn't occurred to him that he was still poised and ready for a fight.

“Not right now,” Max counters, “because Billy’s an asshole and he thinks I’m a bitch, but he’s my brother, and if you break his heart? Your ass is grass.”

Steve stares at her, wide-eyed and speechless. Billy is _ literally _ passed out on the floor, possessed by some sci-fi creature, and _ Steve _ is being threatened. 

She smiles just as the rest of the gang stumbles in and starts shouting about Joyce and the car and the cabin and _ heat _ and _ get your ass moving, Steven_!

~*~

Steve is patched up from a run in with the Russians (and a fight he _ won_, thanks) and half bent over the hospital bed from an uncomfortable, plastic chair when Billy’s fingers start to curl in his own. He shoots up, spine ramrod straight, and almost trips with how quickly he gets to his feet to lean over the other boy. Those dark eyelashes flutter, over and over, and then _ finally_, blue eyes peer up at him after days of being closed, _ days_, and Steve feels like he can breathe again.

“Billy--”

“M’bish,” Billy’s words are slurred and garbled. Steve twists to get a cup of water and a straw. After a few draws of water, Billy drops his head back against the pillow and blinks at Steve, hazy from all the drugs. Steve can tell that Billy is struggling to stay awake despite having just woken up after days of being out.

“What were you saying?” Steve asks quietly. He believes that if Billy weren’t wired to multiple machines, he might have Steve by the throat again. Possessed or not, Steve definitely locked lips with him and then let his sister jab a needle into his thigh.

“I _ am _ a bitch,” Billy mumbles and Steve is extremely aware of the drugs pumping through Billy's body to keep him from feeling pain, “plenty of… I am one.”

Despite the drugs, the risks, the interrogation and the battle that felt like it wasn't going to end, Steve doesn’t hesitate. He leans down and brushes his lips over Billy's. When Billy leans up to return it, Steve thinks that maybe.

Just once. 

He did something right.

**Author's Note:**

> "Standing where I am now, standing up at all  
I was used to feeling like I was never gonna see myself at the finish line  
Hanging on to parts of me, hanging on at all  
I was used to seeing no future in my sight line  
Sometimes it feels like they wanna remind me  
Send all those villains after me  
I'm not their hero  
But that doesn't mean that I wasn't brave  
I never walked the party line  
Doesn't mean that I was never afraid  
I'm not your hero  
But that doesn't mean we're not one and the same  
Feeling like I am now lighting up the hall  
I was used to standing in the shadow of a damaged heart  
Learning all I know now, losing all I did  
I never used to feel like I'd be standing so far ahead  
Sometimes it feels what I recovered you lost  
Sending your peaceful loss to me  
I'm not their hero  
But that doesn't mean that I wasn't brave  
I never walked the party line  
Doesn't mean that I was never afraid  
I'm not your hero  
But that doesn't mean we're not one and the same  
Sometimes it feels like the side that I'm on  
Plays the toughest hand, holds the longest stand  
Sometimes it feels like I'm all that they've got  
It's so hard to know I'm not what they want  
Sometimes it feels like the side that I'm on  
Plays the toughest hand, holds the longest stand  
Sometimes it feels like I'm all that they've got  
It's so hard to know I'm not what they want  
I'm not their hero  
But that doesn't mean that I wasn't brave  
I never walked the party line  
Doesn't mean that I was never afraid  
I'm not your hero  
But that doesn't mean we're not one and the same  
I do my best to walk the finest line  
Till I've had all that I can take"  
-_I'm Not Your Hero_ by Tegan & Sara


End file.
